Welcome to the island, Rachel Platten.
Why She Was Chosen
I know what most of you are thinking, “Two Rachels now, eh?” ‘Tis pure coincidence, but, who wouldn’t want some R&R on the island?
Would 'Hurry Hard' Homan be jealous or upset? No, because she is better than that and I am sure she would realize how lucky they both are for being chosen as settlers and residents of paradise—escaping the collapsed and fallen Western society to which we all came from.
Yes, Rachel Platten is strikingly hot. However, she was, like Homan, picked from the litter for more than just respite for the eyes. Rachel Platten’s story is one of rarity and is compelling in so far as what she went through to achieve her goals and success in life.
Success didn’t just fall into her lap like a free drink from Chad at the local tavern; she earned it; like all the true great artists have done. She is probably one of the most underrated artists (female) to come along.
She isn’t a normie (obviously) and didn’t get to the top by fucking her boss in the back cubicle at Pfizer (at least I am not aware of any cheating); she came from nothing, struggled very hard, had to fight off demons—mainly friends and family who didn’t really think she would make it (always happens).
Her success came, ironically, right after she was about to give up; during the darkest time of her career when she thought she was getting nowhere, playing gigs at local bars in New York, struggling to live, and wondering if she was going to make anything out of her amazing gifts (pianist/singer).
What Rachel did though, was what most of the greats do to make it; they used all the anger they had inside them, the energy, and the frustration. She used all of that fuel to create something amazing. Those amazing things for Rachel came in the form of her mega hit album Wild Fire—which almost every song could be considered a hit. Those songs resonated with the public and it is plain to see why. She struck a chord, so to speak and it paid off. Now, in all honesty, I don’t care for her new stuff—it strays away from the anthmatic, piano-crushing songs from Wild Fire and into the more electric, dark alley style of songs. But, whatever, that’s her journey.
She’s hot, a fighter, and truly earned her way in life—not unlike most of the hussies and sluts who expect the world to be front-loaded, from a blowjob.
Without further buttering Platten’s muffin…our story on the island continues….
Desert Island: Chapter 2
Platten's Paradise
It’s been a few months since Western society and the greater world had collapsed by the hand of the gynocentric mania. You look at Rachel (Homan) and give her the news that Rachel P will be joining you both; not just for dinner and drinks, but for enternity. Arrangements had been made, via the military, to Dumbo drop a Yamaha baby grand piano from a Hercules above; along with Platten to parachute in.
On most nights, almost every night, Platten will play her hits at the small tavern shack that you built out of bamboo, palm leaves and drift wood; with your man-skills. Platten will sing her songs and tickle the ivories for you and other Rachel; while you feast on coconuts and captured, succulent boar via torch lighting. Lighting to which illuminates the inside of the tavern; an aura of island motif and mosaic. Homan did all the decorating. Two pats on the ass for that.
It is a nice way to end the day and spend the evening at the island tavern; especially since Homan would be sweeping the sand from the love hut all day long and would want some fun and entertainment.
Rachel P, during the day, just lies about; catching rays and swimming with the dolphins—since the island doesn't need another sweeper— it would not be a good use of her talents. You, to keep morale high, would, every hour, go up to Homan and give her firm spank on dat' tight ass for encouragement; a slightly, cupping smack that says, “Hey gurl, you’re doing a good job….and looking fine doing it.” She would stop and crane her neck, looking at you with a fiery yearning and thankfulness: An appreciation, because you saved her from the cold, shit-hole that was Canada.
As for Platten, she would be singing down by the shoreline, serenading Homan as she swept the endless sand to which blows into the love hut. You, working on the islands next building project, can hear those faint sounds of an angel. Platten would look at you with appreciation, saying things like how that gull on the water is setting ‘big waves into motion’. You would think to yourself, “I smell another hit coming on.” She would look at you, with a pouting stare and ask, “Are you glad that I am here now, with you and other Rachel on the island?”
You respond simply, “It’s a better place since you came along.”
She stands by you, she walked through hell to get to heaven: The island.
A better place indeed, now that we don’t have to stare at the fulgies in the city streets; the ball-busting bitches, the overweight masses hopped-up of fast food, the ghetto landscape that the West turned into. It had so much potential, but like all good things, it was squandered. Homan and Platten can now both do what they love; sweep and sing. Bathing in the ocean blue, taking in God's view, eating fine fruits, watching monkey's bang and seagulls flying out to sea to die.
The circle of life.
The island doesn’t squander, it nourishes our strengths and our beauty.
All is well on the island, progress is being made— we now have a budding labor force and an entertainment industry.
Night time isn’t tricky because it’s just one giant sleepover—with benefits. Platten would hit high notes like you’ve never heard before and Homan; giving commands to “hurry hard” and finish: A great symphony that only the monkeys and nocturnal can hear under the moonlit canvass.